


If I Loved You

by thegirlwhodidntmakesense



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - World War I, Angst, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Paris 1914, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:15:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwhodidntmakesense/pseuds/thegirlwhodidntmakesense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris, 1914. Combeferre is patient. Combeferre is good. Combeferre is more than what I deserve. But the vicious man by his side is the one I desire and it pains me to hurt and be hurting. Enjolras/Éponine/Combeferre arranged marriage AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one

**_i. “When she was just a girl / she expected the world / but it flew away from her reach / and the bullets catch in her teeth…”_ **

                Every girl wants to be a princess. Every girl dreams of a fairytale wedding with her own prince charming and live happily ever after in a beautiful palace. It may not be now nor will it be forever, but such thought must have occurred at some point in a girl’s life.

                Including me.

                Right now, that clichéd dream is only a snap of finger away from coming true. But, as the moment edges closer, I find myself cowering into the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I should be happy, shouldn’t I? I mean, this is what I’ve been dreaming of.

                He seems nice enough. He stands tall among the rest of the people in the room, but not arrogant. His choice of clothing looks well-put-together without trying too much. His blue eyes are intelligent as he engages in a conversation with my parents, but not condescending as he listens intently to whatever nonsense they are saying. His every gesture is polite without being too careful not to break anything. He is young –probably only a few years older than myself, but has this air of wisdom that I can’t quite point out.

                He looks every bit like the fairytale prince a girl would fall in love with.

                “Éponine, my dear, I’d like you to meet Émile Combeferre,” my father speaks up as soon as he spots me. “Monsieur Combeferre, this is my daughter, Éponine.”

                The blonde man smiles gently before pressing a chaste kiss on the back of my gloved hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle,”

                I feel nothing.

* * *

 

**_ii. “Up with your turret / Aren’t we just terrified? / Shale, screen your worry / from what you won’t ever find…”_ **

                Monsieur Combeferre turns out to be as decent as I thought he would be. Young –no less than twenty five years of age. Prospective –he has already established himself as a doctor at the local hospital. Well-mannered –he offered me his arm as we went out for a stroll about the estate grounds. Intelligent –he spoke with enthusiasm of our common interests in philosophy and humanities.

                I have every reason to fall in love with him. But as much as I enjoy his pleasant company, this setup just feels cold. Tasteless. The thought of spending the rest of my life with a man I have no romantic feelings for becomes too terrifying. It’s amazing how a dream could turn into a nightmare once you subtract love from it.

                Maybe my expectations are too high. I haven’t the faintest idea what falling in love feels like. But I must feel a flutter in my stomach, a skipping heartbeat, or a breath hitching –something that will tell me that this is it.

                This isn’t it.

* * *

 

**_iii. “From the inside of my mouth / and the slow migration south / and it’s not to be denied / it’s not to be denied…”_ **

                “My parents told me about this whole arrangement,” I inform him when he comes around a few days later.

                “Is that so?” he doesn’t seem surprised at all.

                “You know they only did it for the money, right?”

                Combeferre drops his eyes to the ground for a moment. “My family can help out your father’s business,”

                “And they are using us as collateral.”

                “I am aware,” he says quietly, “Mademoiselle –”

                “Please, Combeferre. Call me Éponine,”

                He nods in comprehension, hesitantly looking up. “Éponine, I am asking your permission to court you.”

                “It is not my place to decide, sadly,” I let out a humorless laugh.

                “Well, I’m asking you either way. It is only right to do so,” he insists.

                “What if I said no?”

                “I personally would bow out, but I’m afraid the circumstances are rather complicated…” he muses, “Besides, what will become of you, then?”

                “Banished from home, disgraced, disowned?”

                His face falls.

                The mixture of hurt, worry and shock in his face somehow makes me laugh. Damn my sick sense of humor. “I was joking,”

                “That was a terrible joke,” he counters.

                “I do not need your pity, Combeferre.”

                “I’m not doing this out of pity.”

                “Out of what, then? Love?” I scoff incredulously.

                He stays quiet.

* * *

 

**_iv. “Whispers in the dark / steal a kiss and you’ll break your heart / pick up your clothes and curl your toes / learn your lessons, lead me home…”_ **

                The engagement party is a grand celebration held in Combeferre’s family estate in Bordeaux. Guests come pouring into the tall-windowed ballroom dressed to their nines. The different colors of the evening gowns seem to decorate the massive red-brick mansion. The sound of glasses clinking against each other almost feels like an accompaniment to the music playing in the background. The women gush about the diamond ring that weighs a burden on my left hand. The men flatter, saying that I am far out of Combeferre’s league when the truth is the exact opposite.

                With a small kiss on Combeferre’s cheek, I excuse myself from the haze of cigarette smoke and buzzing chatter to the quiet in the open airs of night.

                “Needed some air?” a male’s voice breaks me out of my reverie.

                He emerges from the dark with his blond curls gleaming under the moonlight and shadows a small part of his face like a pencil sketch. “Mademoiselle,” he bows his head.

                “Monsieur Enjolras,” I say, more of a statement than a greeting.

                Monsieur Enjolras is quite the orator, but rarely ever enjoys small talks. He doesn’t see the purpose of pointless chatter with people he doesn’t particularly like. But, just this once, he may have found a purpose in _this_ small talk.

                “Forgive me for being so crude, but I’m not sure whether I should congratulate you or offer my condolences right about now.”

                “You heard.”

                “I did.”

                I try to laugh, but it comes out a shaky shudder from the cold air biting into my skin.

                He chastely lowers his eyes and hastily slides his dinner jacket off, wrapping it around my mostly-bare shoulders.

                “Oh, you didn’t have to, Monsieur –”

                Monsieur Enjolras raises his right hand. “No, I insist.”

                My stomach fleets when his other hand lingers on my arm. The warmth radiating from his palms contrasts against the coldness of my skin.

                “Combeferre is a good man, we both know that. But I…”

                My windpipe closes up before I can finish the sentence. I do not even realize how much I have kept in until my eyes start to burn and my vision goes hazy. My stomach, that fluttered only moments ago, sinks into a pit and drags my whole insides with it. It must have got stuck somewhere because my chest feels like exploding into little pieces, its debris coming out a series of shattering sobs.

                “Shh… Hey, you will be fine,” he grips both of my arms tighter, as if trying to make sure that I am still here.

                “Do _not_ feed me more lies! I am tired of being told that I will be fine, because I know I will not,” I shove his hands away, but the shove is only as powerful as a limp nudge to him.

                My knees give in, but Monsieur Enjolras catches my waist before I hit the grassy earth. We are attached by the hip and frozen in this position as I bury my face into his shoulder.

                When my ragged sobbing subsides, he speaks up. “I apologize, Mademoiselle. I should not have brought up the matter in the first place, considering how this whole thing upsets you.”

                I look up to find his blue eyes wide and apologetic, and before I know it, my anger is lost in there. “Well, since I have just stained your waistcoat with my tears, I would consider us quite even.”

                He smiles. Despite having seen him lurking about (because he hardly mingles) the whole evening, that is the first genuine smile I have seen from him. Monsieur Enjolras is as beautiful as the Statue of David (if not more), but the smile livens up his features and makes him actually look human. A pair of lines traces along the sides of his mouth like parentheses. The corner of his eyes crinkle, reminding the fact that his skin isn’t made of marble.

                Somewhere between studiously observing his features and closing my eyes to stop more tears from falling, Monsieur Enjolras touches me when Combeferre has not.

                My heart races in his embrace. My head feels like floating yet I do not want to drift away. My breath stops in my throat as we close the gap between our lips. And from that angle, I do not feel him breathing either.

                It is everything missing in my encounter with Combeferre.

                His eyebrows are knit and eyelids shut when we pull away, like he is having an inner conflict of some sort. He leaves his lips parted for a moment before apologizing profusely once more.

                “I promise you, it won’t happen again.”

* * *

 

**_v. “So young, full of running / all the way to the edge of desire / steady my breathing, silently screaming / I have to have you now…”_ **

                Some promises you break, some promises you keep. Monsieur Enjolras is not usually a man who breaks his own words, but like the small talk earlier in the evening, this is another exception.

                “Éponine…” he drawls, his lips just hovering over mine. “You are marrying my best friend.”

                “He doesn’t love me! Nor I him,”

                “And you love me instead?”

                I am unsure how to answer that. Do I love him? Are those physical symptoms I am getting whenever he is nearby what love feels like? How do I know? Who do I ask?

                “We can’t do this, Éponine. We shouldn’t.”

                His mixed signals confuse me. What comes out of his mouth contradicts how his arms lock around my waist and forehead pressed against mine.

                “Tell me that you feel nothing and I will walk away,” I close my eyes, bracing myself for what is to come from him.

                “I can’t,” he breathes out.

                A wave of relief washes over me. The lack of emotional interaction has made me desperate. He may have not said the word, but the fact that he does feel _something_ is enough for me.

                Unlike his bold traits, his kiss starts out stiff and hesitant. Some may even think it emotionless. It’s almost as if he was trying to prove something by being objective.

                Well, as objective as he can be, in a situation as compromising as this.


	2. part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the good things I have right in front of me, why must I choose the forbidden one?

_**vi. "You've got the best of both worlds / you're the kind of girl who can take down a man / and lift him back up again…"** _

Oddly enough, my forbidden encounters with Monsieur Enjolras make this whole arrangement somewhat worthwhile. Combeferre takes me to the Musain, where he would meet up with his dear friends and their respective partners. Monsieur Enjolras is always there –discussing, debating and preaching about dear old Patria.

Whilst Combeferre and the rest of his friends describe him as a 'marble statue as cold as ice', Monsieur Enjolras is as bold as fire as he speaks of his supposed love of his life. This initiates me to refute –practically bashing on his clichéd ideals. It is highly uncharacteristic of me to be so bothered by someone's idealism, but the way he romanticize it sets me off like flame to gunpowder. Could this be jealousy?

I can feel heads turning as I speaking, presumably because women usually only acts as a mute accessory and not as a participant. Messieurs Courfeyrac, Prouvaire and Joly are gaping in their seats as Monsieur Enjolras and I are nearly head-butting as it turns into a full-on showdown between idealism and realism ( _Skepticism_ , he argues).

"You need to get over your self-righteousness!" I call him out.

" _You_  need to have more faith in the people –our own people!" he retorts.

"You talk of liberty and freedom, and yet you are telling me to have more faith in the people, which I do not intend to do. Isn't a free man –what's the word, he that is not hindered to do what he hath the will to do?"

Monsieur Grantaire pressed his lips together in a closed-mouth grin at my rebuttal.

"Ah, but you have to remember that freedom does not mean a liberty for everyone to do what he likes, to live as he pleases. It also has laws in the society."

"The society couldn't care less about my faith in them! I doubt that half of them even care about  _their_ own faith in the people. They only care about wealth and social status,"

"Not all of them…"

I let out a sharp exhale. "Open your eyes and look around, Monsieur –"

"Enough." Combeferre cuts in sternly before softening his gaze, "There's no need to burn the place down tonight."

Amongst a group of people aching to make a change, Combeferre serves as their solid middle ground. He does not challenge someone who disagrees with him; he prefers to accept the different opinions and not force his down other people's throats. When someone does, he would be doing his utmost to handle the situation in a civilized manner. He does not share Monsieur Enjolras' passion in fighting for the future of France; he values peace too much. It is in his natural instinct to be the person to rely on. Because that is just a good person that he is.

But there is some kind of twisted satisfaction inside of me when the veins in his neck are visible under his skin and his blue eyes –which aren't even blue anymore, are practically burning into me. It is a thrilling sensation under the risk of being exposed every time we steal a furious kiss in a dark secluded back room and every subtle touch whenever we brush against each other.

Of all the good things I have right in front of me, why must I choose the forbidden one?

* * *

_**vii. "Cloaked under the night / with nothing to suppress / A woman and a man / No more and yet no less / and I kissed you…"** _

The diamond ring on my left hand seems to grow bigger and brighter that it blinds me every time I raise my heavy hand. The wedding dress laid out on the chaise seems like a headless corpse lying dead to make an example of what will become of me tomorrow and ever.

Pale. Limp. Empty.

I need to get away.

So here I am in male's clothing on the other side of the city, knocking on his door like my life depends on it. For a moment, I honestly believe that it does.

"Yes, may I help you, Monsieur?" he answers, not the slightest bit drowsy despite the fact that it's past midnight.

I lift my head up from the shadow to show my face.

There is a flash of uncertainty in his eyes before I push past him into his townhouse. It is the minute gesture of telling me what big trouble we are in that gets me going, because, for the love of Saint Peter, I  _need_  to feel unsafe once more in my doomed lifetime.

Come tomorrow morning, I will be married to the patient Combeferre who will care for me like a gentle, loving husband that he should and will be. But, tonight, Monsieur Enjolras and I consume each other savagely, selfishly as if the world is ending tomorrow.

Trembling fingers frantically peel off the layers of clothing that get in the way, replacing it with our hands and lips. Hands and lips are tugging, kissing, exploring where it has never been evaded before. Teeth sink into the burning skin while the tongue grazes soothingly in between. Low grunts and heaving breaths echo in his dark apartment, and – _Oh, God._

If the sight of his head of glorious blond curls between my legs isn't enough to blind me in ecstasy, the kiss he places on my nether lips certainly is. My hushed whispers grow into clear, audible moans of incoherent words. This elicits a small laugh from him; all the while his tongue is still caressing me. The wave is too much for my frail little form to bear.

He looks up in the mischievous manner that sends shiver down my spine. His fingers replace where his mouth was, quicker than a blink; ebbing and curling against my inner walls. Being the terrible man that he is, he ghosts his lips over mine, careful not to let anything more than his hot breath touch them.

"I want you," he whispers, almost to himself.

"Then,  _please._ "

The blue in his eyes disappear behind his dilated pupils. With a hard kiss and his hands clutching both of my wrists for dear life, we pass the point of no return.

I break away with a gasp at his intrusion. He freezes and looks at me in confusion and a tinge of urgency.

My legs wrap around his waist as if he will break if I don't. "Please…"

He slams into me again and again mercilessly. His hands only grip my wrist tighter when I arch against him. His mouth keeps on ravishing my body despite my pleading. No matter; those words that escape my lips aren't pleas to stop, anyway.

But, there is one small moment before everything goes white, where he lifts his head from the crook of my neck. His eyes, wide and darkened with lust, look right into mine with a ghost of a tender smile.

It is my own safe definition of the unsafe.

* * *

**_viii. And in the morning / when you turn in / I'll be far to sea / and you have broken me all the way down / you'll be the last, you'll see…_ **

As fearless and stubborn as I seem, I am no more than a petty coward. I do not have the guts to call off the arrangement and deal with the consequences, opting to leave him in his slumber before the sun rises instead.

In the end, I put on the white dress to hide the marks Monsieur Enjolras have made the night prior and the fake smile to conceal what's left of my broken heart. I set my eyes on the man at the end of the aisle –and giving my all not to even glance at the one standing beside him.

The priest pronounces us husband and wife. My heart drops in guilt as I fear that Combeferre can taste the betrayal on my lips. It crumbles as I can feel his glare boring into me, stoic and passive.

It makes me wonder if he did not even come at all. A part of me would have been relieved that I am not the only coward in this situation. But Monsieur Enjolras, among other spiteful things he may be, is not a coward.

I am.

* * *

_**ix. Do you ever get the feeling that we started in the middle? / Or have you ever had the sense that we've been lying just a little? / I mean, come on / it's not like we've known ourselves that long…** _

"Would you like me to take the other bedroom?" Combeferre asks, standing gingerly in the middle of our bedroom.  _Ours._

"Don't be ridiculous. The maids are going to talk," I attempt to reason with him, "Stay."

His eyebrows knit for a split second, but he obliges anyway and sits on the edge of the bed wordlessly.

"Did I say something wrong?"

"I know about you and Enjolras."

I stop in my tracks to guess his emotion and thought towards this fact. But instead, I find nothing but the soft, serene eyes that belong to Combeferre and Combeferre only. "Is it that obvious?"

"No, but I know Enjolras better than anyone else," he replies.

In loss for words, I stride to sit by his side and utter the only thing that rings true in my head. "I'm sorry,"

"Please, do not apologize for your own feelings,"

"Even if they involve a man other than my husband? His best friend, no less…" I ask carefully, perfectly aware that I'm walking on thin ice.

My personal experience has prepared me for blows to the face or degrading insults until I have grown numb of them as the years go. But, when Combeferre only shakes his head softly, the dull ache in the chest begins to suffocate me.

Then again, the pain isn't enough to conquer my stubbornness to give into my horrible infatuation towards his closest friend. It's not enough to turn me into the good wife he deserves.

"I will not stop seeing him, however."

"I understand."

"You are free to see anyone else you fancy."

He nods gently, lowering his eyes. "Thank you."

That moment I wonder if his kindness would be the death of me someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go, the smut! I have close to zero experience in writing smut, so I hope it's not too bad. Let me know what you think! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, lovely people! If you've reached the bottom of this chapter, I assume you've read it so thank you for reading :) I hope this isn't too bad. I'm kind of new to this site and this is my first attempt at writing something darker, so fingers crossed, this is not too disappointing. Feel free to hit me up here, or on FFN under the same name, or Tumblr under 'gooneranalogheart'. Your feedback would be greatly appreciated. Until the next time! *curtsies*


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